


The Sixth Day

by Phoenix_Soar



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Aziraphale Is Trying (Good Omens), Aziraphale is Not Innocent (Good Omens), Aziraphale is So Done with Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale wants the D, But Crowley can't take a hint, Crack, Horny Aziraphale (Good Omens), Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M, Oblivious Crowley (Good Omens), pls fuck the angel Crowley he's asking nicely, that's it that's the fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-06
Updated: 2020-11-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:55:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27418366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phoenix_Soar/pseuds/Phoenix_Soar
Summary: Even the world was created in less time than it takes for Crowley to take a hint. Aziraphale makes a last-ditch attempt.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 50
Kudos: 160





	The Sixth Day

On the first day (of the rest of their lives), an Angel looks at a Demon across a table at the Ritz and says, pointedly, ‘You know, my dear, this is possibly the happiest I’ve ever been and yet … I feel so _empty_.’

Crowley blinks. Then realising Aziraphale can't see it, he removes his sunglasses and blinks again.

‘You feel empty?’

‘Mm hmm.’ Aziraphale puts aside his wine and leans in. ‘I am incomplete by myself. I fear there is a void within me that only one thing can _fill_.’ He wiggles his shoulders meaningfully.

‘I s’pose suddenly losing your eternal job can make you feel empty.’ Crowley looks worried. ‘Shit, angel, do you … d’you need to talk to someone?’

Sighing, Aziraphale reaches for his wineglass, resigned to a night of drinking and nothing else in the way of action.

On the second day, Aziraphale walks into his backroom with a cardboard box and artfully trips by the sofa, spilling small plastic packets all over Crowley’s lap.

‘Oh, dear me.’

‘What’s this, then?’ Crowley picks up one of the square packets. His eyebrows shoot up.

‘A group of very nice people were passing them out on the corner for free.’

‘So you took the whole damn box?’

‘They were raising awareness on an important issue. I ought to support them.’

‘Aziraphale, what need do _you_ have of Trojan ultra-ribbed condoms?’ Crowley exclaims.

Aziraphale sits down beside him. ‘Indeed. It would be quite a shame to let them all go to waste, though, wouldn’t it?’ He looks at Crowley from under his lashes.

Crowley’s face lights up. ‘Oh, I know what we can do!’

‘Yes?’ Aziraphale croons, scooting closer.

‘Blow them into balloons and send ’em to that wanker Gabriel!’

Aziraphale stands up. ‘I’m opening the shop,’ he huffs and stomps out.

On the third day, Aziraphale looks out from the windshield of the Bentley, and states, very clearly, ‘Crowley, we ought to purchase some lubricant.’

‘Why?’ Crowley takes a corner at eighty-nine miles per hour in Central London. ‘Nearly a century and my car’s never had engine trouble.’

Aziraphale slumps glumly in his seat, staunchly refusing to make a prayer for patience.

On the fourth day, Aziraphale clicks on his rickety old computer. He expects Google to be there and so it is.

With care, he begins to type in his question.

On the fifth day, Aziraphale calls Crowley a quarter before midnight and tells him, conversationally, ‘I finally used the Google to search for the most effective way to help someone rather unfortunately oblivious take a hint.’

‘’Tis just Google, angel, and congratulations,’ Crowley replies. ‘Proud of you. You get your answer?’

‘Most suggested talking but it wasn’t working for me, I’m afraid. I did find a comment suggesting the use of a neon sign to, hmm, spell my message out, as it were.’

Crowley snickers. ‘Yeah, that ought to do it.’

'Do you really believe so? Excellent. Come over, dear.’

‘What, _now_?’

‘Now.’ Aziraphale hangs up.

Ten minutes later, Crowley walks into the backroom of Aziraphale’s bookshop. He stops dead.

Aziraphale smiles at him from where he is carefully laid out on his sofa. All of his clothes are neatly folded and placed aside on his worktable. A sizeable stack of condoms and a bottle of lubricant are within reach on the floor.

Floating above Aziraphale’s spread legs is a length of red LED lights, intricately looped to form the words, in a font akin to Times New Roman:

_FUCK ME, CROWLEY_

In smaller font, just below the name, is the polite postscript, _please._

Crowley stares at the naked Angel. He stares at the blinding sign. He stares at Aziraphale’s waiting effort.

‘Oh.’

Crowley’s jeans fall down; his cock springs up.

The old grandfather clock in the corner strikes midnight.

Aziraphale smiles. ‘And on the sixth day…’

**Author's Note:**

> I needed at least one crack fic in my repertoire and ofc my brain had to go and make it horny pfftt
> 
> Hopefully it made you smile until I deliver some actual smut in a few hours (my lovely readers of 'Wicked Thing', keep an eye out <3)
> 
> Yell at me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/RV_Phoenix_Soar) and [Tumblr](https://phoenix-soar.tumblr.com)
> 
> My less ridiculous Ineffable Husbands fics [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works?utf8=%E2%9C%93&commit=Sort+and+Filter&work_search%5Bsort_column%5D=revised_at&include_work_search%5Brelationship_ids%5D%5B%5D=575567&work_search%5Bother_tag_names%5D=&work_search%5Bexcluded_tag_names%5D=&work_search%5Bcrossover%5D=&work_search%5Bcomplete%5D=&work_search%5Bwords_from%5D=&work_search%5Bwords_to%5D=&work_search%5Bdate_from%5D=&work_search%5Bdate_to%5D=&work_search%5Bquery%5D=&work_search%5Blanguage_id%5D=&user_id=Phoenix_Soar) XD


End file.
